


To My Rose

by jimikat



Category: Original Work
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Letters, Love Letters, Magic, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25528771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimikat/pseuds/jimikat
Summary: Cassia, a student traveling back to the University Arcane for start of term, finds herself enraptured by a mysterious woman she meets at a bookshop. Their brief meet cute ends without even names exchanged, but Cassia can’t rid her mind of the woman whose hair smelled of flowers.These are their letters.
Kudos: 9





	1. To the rose of the bookshop

_**To the rose of the bookshop,** _

I hope this letter finds you. Even more so, I hope you are the “whom” to which this letter is intended.

Allow me to give you the briefest introduction, so you will know whether to avert your eyes or keep reading.

If you are my rose, you are a tall woman of dark complexion. No, not just dark, but deep, perfect, boundless complexion. I could stare into the depths of that skin forever and slowly lose all sense of reality. My only universe would be that beautiful, beautiful skin.

If you are my rose, your hair is black with an ashen hue. Is hue correct? Would it be shade or tint, for it is without colour? An artist I am not. A maelstrom of ashen curls in a halo around your face.

If you are my rose, your eyes are the inky infinitude of the night sky, swirling with unknown galaxies within.

If you are my rose, then I’ve pressed you against the bookshelves filled with holy tomes deploring the immorality coursing through my heathen brain. I could feel their judgement when I thought about how I wanted to smell the floral scents wafting from your locks.

What flower did they smell of? I thought roses but you laughed when I said it.

And what of me, then? Well I am the freckled, fair-skinned, red-haired mess of a woman whose book bag ripped and you caught stealing a book that made me blush. I told you it was for my classes at university. I lied. You knew.

If you are my Rose, I implore you to write back. I am overcome with thoughts of you. I will not lie and say I neither eat nor sleep for want of you, for anyone who knows me knows I have never gone without either for long.

If you asked it of me, I would miss a day’s meals and a night’s sleep to see you again. Maybe more, if I could learn what your hair smells of.

Please don’t make me beg.  
Write me back.

Yours truly,

_**Cassia** _


	2. Cassia.

_**Cassia.** _

I remember you. Your words have reached the appropriate person, though I find them overwhelming and verbose. You would do well to hire an editor, I think.

Why do you think I ever wanted to hear from you? You make it sound as though we shared a magical evening brimming with twisted limbs in twisted sheets.

You barely touched me and then you bolted like a yearling and stole that book as well.

Besides all this, I do not like roses.


	3. To my rose

**_To my rose,_ **

Ah!! I have found you!! But no name has been signed on your letter!! Surely a mistake?

You cannot imagine my glee upon seeing your letter today. I felt certain my words, so thoughtfully chosen (though to some the prose unwieldy it seems), would end up before the eyes of a page boy who might copy them down to impress some young fawn.

And even more, you remember me!! I am overjoyed, though your letter plays at nonchalance. Perhaps you do not remember quite so well the sound your lips made when your back was pressed into “Morality of Our Days” and “The Chaste Walk.” 

That sound is what drives me to write this letter, even when your last letter might have given one less keen the impression that you did not care for my company.

But!!

Let it never be said that I pushed where I was not desired.

Say the word in your next letter, my rose, and you will never hear from me again.

I await any other combination of words but that. And if your name is attached, all the better.

_**Your truest, Cassia** _


	4. To Cassia

_**To Cassia,** _

I never said I did not enjoy our moment together. And I apologize if it seemed to indicate that.

You are a charming woman. I found you fascinating. And perhaps in another time I would have pressed myself into your arms and begged you to let me follow you like a pup.

But you are young, and you are far. These are two qualities I do not hold in high regard.

Your words are playful and exhausting. You will not have my name.

Now stop calling me Rose.


	5. To my Rose, my sweet Rose

_**To my Rose, my sweet Rose,** _

I know you detest the name, but without another to call you by I’m afraid you’re quite stuck with it.

Ah, but will she give me her truest name, the one that sits on legal forms, embroidered into corners of handkerchiefs, resting at the very end of a letter written tidily to her beloved?

Ah, but does she even have a beloved for whom to pen her name?

I think of the way your lips parted when I ran my fingers along your neck, and I think no woman could respond in such a way were her attentions divided elsewhere.

I thought to slide my fingers down along your clavicle that night, thought to explore sternum and were I feeling particularly devilish I would finger at the hem of your collar. I wonder how soft you must be beneath the fabric that sits upon your breast.

Your neck was satin under my fingertips, so of course I’m rapt with the thought of how the rest of you would compare.

Perhaps I should make a study of you. Perhaps I should bring it up to the masters at university when they ask what my term’s focus shall be.

“Rose,” I shall say. “And the degree to which her ebony skin shudders at my touch.”

What do you think of that, Rose?  
Will you be my study? We should have to work hard, I imagine, for this is my fourth term and papers must be thorough.  
I should have to explore every measure of your skin, I should have to inspect every hill and valley on the countryside of your form.

I should have to press my lips into the wetness of you and taste your fruit.  
Ah, but perhaps that is yet too far.

For I do not even know your name.

I’ll await your letter, and if it never comes I will ache forever but never judge you for it.

**_Your truest, Your Cassia_ **


	6. True Cassia

_**True Cassia,** _

Still with this Rose business. Your instructors must detest you, for you seemingly do not have a head equipped to learn.

So try for another flower, if you must, but leave “Rose” by the wayside. Pick another to make a name of.  
For I will never tell you mine.

It surprises me to hear you showed restraint that night. I do not remember much being shown before fear gripped you, but perhaps you should be congratulated. 

And while you are indeed exhausting, I admit I have saved the memories of our time together, locked in a precious little box in my mind, to be taken out and played with when it is needed.

Your words are taxing on my mind, but there is honey there that I find myself drawn to. I am not too proud to admit it.

I thought of it last night in bed, waiting for sleep to take me. I thought of your warmth as you pressed me against the wall, the wetness of your breath on my ear when you whispered to me.

When you asked me my name.

I admit I opened your letter again in bed, to read your words penned in a hand far more legible than I thought possible of one so impatient. I imagined the sight of your lovely red hair between my thighs, imagined how nicely it would be to wind my fingers into those locks and press you into me.

You wanted to taste my fruit and dip your tongue into my river, but I wanted you to smother in it. Would you like that? Would you like to suck my clit until I come on you?

No, you just want a name.

Tell your masters you want to study a rose, and perhaps with our sessions your thesis can teach them how to properly fuck a woman, for I very much doubt any of them have done so.

I am not so shy and demure as you think. Perhaps you should have touched my breast when you had the chance, Cassia.

__**Goodnight.  
-R  
**


	7. To my Wicked Rose

_**  
To my Wicked Rose,  
** _

I am aghast!! I am agog!! Who is this silver-tongued incubus emerged to lure me down unholy paths!!

Surely this is not my Rose, so upright and poised!!

Where has this bite come from, and why was it not shown in person? My god I am more in love with you now than ever.

You must tell me your name. If you don’t, I will only ever call you Rose and you will only ever despise me. I could not live if you despised me!!

Alas for poor Cassia, her body torn asunder by a mere handful of words (and all the mental images to accompany them)!! I spent my night writhing in bed, longing for your warmth and the weight of your cleft upon my eager lips. 

Were I to call on you this week, would you be there? Damn it all, but classes may keep me from your temple, though I admit the way I am quivering all over, what good would classes do!!

Should I offer to lecture tomorrow, and read only your letter ten, twenty times over? Should I make a lesson of your beauty and your wickedness to teach these cocksure students of the arcane how to properly worship a woman?

They may expel me for such temptuous words but even if so I would be free to come to you right now!! A reward worth the risk!!

Tell me, Rose, if I were to fly to your side this very night, if I could somehow learn to travel the distance of days in a mere hour, would you still be laying on your bed waiting for me, my letter in your hand?

_**  
Your truest, Your Cassia  
** _


	8. To Poor, Torn Cassia

**_To Poor, Torn Cassia..._ **

I could not discern whether your musings to “fly to my side” were threat or promise. And what would I do with you were you to arrive upon my threshold? I have said before you are far too young. A grown woman yet your words suggest you have never truly lived.

How long have you been away from home? Have many unknown roads have your boots tread? Are they even broken in yet?

Indeed, the way you carry on, I suspect I may have been the first women you ever laid eyes on who did not grow up in your small town.

Allow me to guess, Cassia. In your tiny country home, were you the wittiest and brightest and surely destined for great things? Did the townsfolk talk about you and say, “Mark my words, our young Cassia is going places.”?

Surely this is the only way a girl can grow a head so large as yours.

A large, but pretty head… Full of sunset curls so perfect to wind one’s fingers through, so perfect to grip tightly.

Quite a pretty head…

As I think upon you, Cassia, I find I must admit two things about you.

The first being your eyes. In their constant absorption of the world around them, they rather give the impression of seeing entirely more than I am comfortable showing. It is disconcerting. For one so flippant as yourself, I would not expect the eyes of a See-er. That is what they remind me of. Do you know the stories? If not, perhaps you should find your way back along those unknown roads, back to me.

I can whisper them in your ears while we lay in my bed.

Maybe that’s why I let you press me against the tomes in my shop. Those eyes, so full of the depths of the oceans and bearing the colour of its foam.

I am not too proud a woman to admit it gave me pause. I wonder what those eyes see when they look at me.

I wonder if they manage to see the things I am ever wary to show.

_**\- R** _


	9. To My Seen Rose

**_To my seen Rose,_ **

You posited in your last letter that you had been the first woman I’d ever seen outside of “my small town.” I’ll have you know my town is not so small!! I would give you examples but, as a woman of the city, surely you would simply laugh at me. I do not think my heart could bear the derision!!

Besides all that, I admit to you freely: Whether or not it is the case is entirely irrelevant!! Why?

Because you may as well have been the first. To look upon you was to behold womankind anew!! I never have known Woman before I saw you.

“Ah, Cassia,” you might say. “But you yourself are a woman, are you not?”

Yet if my Rose is what I am to be compared to in order to claim this title, it could never be so!!

The power and austere grace of you, the sway of your back, the dip between breasts and the fullness of lip as it smirks derisively at my stammering heart… The collected nature and the assured knowledge that you are above me, that you are merely willing to step briefly down to meet me where I stand…

All together place my Rose on another level; a higher being is she!!

What could she think of me, a lowly mortal, not the goddess of Woman that she herself enshrines?

I could only hope she sees in me a portion that is worthy of her attention. And might I be so bold as to suggest her continued correspondence with me is proof of this?

_**Yours ever so truly, Cassia** _

_Postscript: You mentioned in your last letter that you would say two things of me, and yet you listed only one. Was this oversight or a cruelty done to me? And may it be elaborated upon?_

_Postpostscript: What is a See-er?_


End file.
